Drawing Perspective
by Orahiko
Summary: Yaoi. Fin, drabbles. He is nothing more than what he seems. He is everything, and everything is an illusion.
1. Drawing Perspective

I do not own Yugioh; so don't sue. Mild shonen ai, so if you're offended, read and the flames will help me write. Mild JouSeto and RyouBakura

Drawing Perspective

There's a boy sitting on a park bench, simple and worn. The peeling paint catches in his skin, his clothes, but it doesn't matter. Not really. There's no difference in the light of his coffee colored eyes, the wind doesn't abate its frantic dance in his moon colored hair. He hugs a few pieces of parchment to his chest, his most precious instruments, rough stubs of charcoal, the end of a pencil and a faintly graying pink slab eraser lie next to him, untroubled by the wind. Passerbyers tend to stare, he's as common a sight and novelty as the chess players, the constantly parked taxis, and the children grasping at autumn leaves fluttering and flinging themselves blindly in the wind. It doesn't matter that they're too awkward to approach him, to lonely to seek companionship they are unsure of, or too unhappy to even notice such a sight. He doesn't hesitate in his actions; he doesn't stop, even if it may seem as futile as the rash king, eternally rolling a boulder up a hillside. A constant pleasant smile is upon his face, slim hands stained with charcoal dust.

_Hey brother, look at those leaves! Isn't it a gorgeous day? Bet you didn't expect it to be so nice._

_No kidding._

Their hair is the color of the latent rustipped leaves, vibrant and dizzying. _He_ appears to be a flash of silver, an expensive coat rumpling in the wind.

_No insults today?_

_I've decided to save my breath. Hello Shizuka._

_Hi._

_Don't talk to my sis!_

_Brother, it's fine. He can talk to me, I really don't mind._

………………………

_I'm going to get something to drink. Do you two want anything?_

_No thank you._

_Me neither._

_Okay._

It's a like park bench, simply different people. One of the two boy's head is bowed over his skinny knees; he plucks idly at his sleeve. The other has set his briefcase down, and leans idly against the shuttered iron railing. His posture is perfect, and to an observer seems unrelenting, for him, he is relaxed, but he's ready for attack. Tired. The sitting boy steals glances he doesn't think are seen at the second, he thinks that the other looks weightless, yet distinct, a noble but calculating general from long ago, unchangingly set in unweathered stone.

_It's a beautiful day._

_It is._

A hesitant nod.

_Why are you being so polite?_

_Nice_, he wants to say, and catches his breath before he can say _charming._

A shrug.

_Aren't I allowed to be nice?_

_I wouldn't know. _Pause.

The barest flicker starting in blue eyes.

_Of course._

He's tired in this boys presence and yet full of energy. He doesn't understand this feeling of elation and attributes it to the wind rushing past his eardrums._ He doesn't know. He truly doesn't know._

The boy looks down, sun warmed lashes dusting coarsely tanned golden skin.

" What don't you like?"

_He doesn't sneer and walk away. He doesn't ask 'Why would you need to know?' He_ _doesn't retort about how unlikely it might be if the other would even be capable of understanding his_ _answer. Instead he answers. It's a strange day, a truly strange place that compels him to answer._

"I don't like nosy reporters and inefficient new things, I don't like fancy coffee though I'll drink it anyway, and I don't like secretaries I don't like wanting things I can't have. I don't like it because it shouldn't be possible; I've done everything and will do anything to achieve my goals. If I fail or am confused it's a sign of weakness, I suppose. If you take some things they wilt and die, so its not meant to be. I guess I'm sick of impossibility. It surprises me."

_Shadowed amber flecked eyes, shifting, considering. Biting back the questions that could shatter a fragile hope like blown glass. He considers. He wants to ask, don't you dislike me, or do you truly hate me? How could you not, or am I merely beneath your notice? Do you not like me because I'm me?_

But he doesn't ask, because he doesn't know.

"_Do you not want to want, or are you afraid you won't understand?"_

His voice squeaks oddly in his own ears, and he mocks himself silently, and frustrated, berates himself.

_He doesn't laugh. He stands so still, he almost doesn't breathe. He's confused and he hates that, he doesn't know and he mentally adds that to the list of things he dislikes._

"_Yes,"_ he says aloud, his voice sounding odd, awkward even in his own ears,"_ I don't know. I don't like it._

_A grin._

Lips curve into a teasing smile, too much like a smirk for his comfort, too warm for his unhappiness. He almost smiles back, but catches himself, and stooping to grasp his silver briefcase with one thin hand, he turns sharply to leave.

_He's cold, almost the cold that burns but isn't frozen, says something he wasn't expecting to say. Something he doesn't understand, but it's almost torn out of him by the wind." I come here often." Abrupt and confusing, he doesn't understand why he said it, almost wishes he hadn't. By that logic, he shouldn't like it. But he does, and he doesn't know. He doesn't know why._

The artist on the bench smiles, intent on his drawing. He looks it over carefully, adding a twist of a leaf in one corner, a smudge in the other, reaching up to look at the fading apple leaves, the frosty blue sky, when he finally looks away from his drawing. It's a curious piece, so he does not rush it. He is too experienced for that. He wants it to turn out well.

" _I've been thinking."_

_Really. Sarcasm, hidden in hard blue steel, mirroring every word._

"_If…if you wanted something you couldn't have, would you dislike it simply because it was itself, and you wouldn't change that? But doesn't that contradict itself?" His words are hurried and gasping, he ran desperately here, simply to speak to the other. Those words they spoke, haunt him, and he thinks about them in a way he had only thought a few times before. The boy exhales sharply; he hasn't caught his breathe yet, but he's determined and stubborn, he wants that answer and he'll risk the storm in those eyes to get it._

_The other is motionless, tall and deliberate against the pale sky and he doesn't know what to say. He feels loose, feckless, light, and undone, and he puts out a hand on the dark roughness of the nearby tree to steady himself, to stop the other from running away, locking the moment in play. He look down, and realizes. He understands that the boy underneath him is warm even though he shivers with cold through that ratty worn green jacket, and he's cold, so very cold, even though he feels fine, and he wants unattainable warmth. He thinks idly that he could catch the harsh breaths of the other that puff against the cold autumn weather, and the warmth would cling to his skin, even after he pulls away and it disappears, and that he is also very, very confused. He thinks he wants warmth._

_It's gentle, and a little odd._

"_Some things surprise me."_

An involuntary open gesture, nimble fingers sketching lightly in the air, as if the artist holds calligraphy brush. A peaceful smile, a delicate stroke added skillfully upon the page. A red leaf falls onto the parchment, but he doesn't brush it aside.

_He walks here often with his sister, leaves tucked into their hair that almost couldn't be noticed because of the similarity in color. _He _walks there often, his silver briefcase swinging from his hand, a cashmere scarf tucked under his chin. They don't seem to encounter each other often, or at prearranged times. But the leaves are as thin and yellow as the artist's paper, and the pond has long since iced over, traces of bright leaves on its surface now decayed and powdered._

_They like to walk by here, and so they sometimes meet the other passing through, now and then, but the bluster and cold affrontery is mostly gone now. The girl is always glad to see the other boy, and he is always unfailingly polite to her, kind, courteous, and inquiring. He is less to the boy, but he teases him more often. The girl likes to think this is a face he shows only her and she rushes to her phone after her brother has brought her home, and flutters about how nice he is and how he normally acts isn't his fault, his past, and how strong and sure he is…The other boy doesn't speak that much, but he watches how the one they meet brings his sister flowers, and sometimes chocolates, but for him only words or silence. But since it's a different kind of silence, he's not sure what to say, but accepts it. He does. But he doesn't know why._

The young artist never leaves his seat; he seems to have an uncanny instinct for knowing where they are. He sketches them, often, but most commonly the solitary one, like a brooding dragon. He draws him in ink, it's a study in patience though it was harder at first, but now it comes naturally, he likes the way the black cross hatching shows depth and darkness or varying lack of. He admires the widening of lines to hint at shadow, and he sketches him constantly. He skims the pen on the parchment; he never draws the other two in ink. He smiles and he sighs and groans in frustration and laughs and buries pale hands in his feathery white mane, but he doesn't give up. Never.

_There's snow, now. It covers the ground and blankets the pond, and someday they expect to find the chess players under a heavy coat of snow, diligently playing through the surrounding icy sheet. They still come, laughing and talking and stomping their feet free of the caked snow, so he does as well. They talk, but never long, it's too cold. Sometimes they bring pastries, or small cups of mulled cider and hot chocolate and coffee, but he doesn't; and the girl notices, and tells her brother who brings another cup just for him, and flushes when he's thanked. It's not noticeable, because the lanterns are nearly extinguished, but the other notices. He wonders why._

_Hello._

_Hi!_

_Here…._

_Thanks._

_No problem._

_It's beautiful, even though there's so much cold weather. I hear it'll be a short winter, though._

_Yes, I heard that too._

_Come on, sis, we gotta go._

_Sure, bye! smile_

_Goodbye. nod_

_Sure_, _whatever. Shrug_

They never notice the artist.

_The park is thawing and dripping new water now to puddle in the dark earth. The other hasn't seen the two siblings in weeks. He may miss them, but he doesn't know if he does. It's a warm night, the spread of deep blue shot with brilliant gems glorious. He's changed, still clearly cut translucent marble, a purely alive statue; his skin pale as snowy stone. He looks up, through the dimming electric dazzle of lights and he sees the artist. He never did before. He sits down, the paint catches on his clothes, but he doesn't notice. He has never been a great conversationalist, he never had to be, but it really doesn't matter. Not now._

" _That drawing…it's of me…"_

"Yes. I draw here often. Sometimes I draw the people passing through."

"_Not only of me then…them?"_

"Yes."

"_I see. May I see the drawings?"_

He passes the sketches over to him, they've occupied half a year of his time and attention, its time somebody saw the products of his industry.

The drawings are not good. They are wonderful. The pictures are truly beautiful. The artist is a master and a pupil. He knows. He understands, but he doesn't always understand, and he doesn't hate when he doesn't understand, even if he doesn't know why. The artwork is more than lines on a page, more than that simply because he has expressed so much thought and emotion in them, so much that they are alive in their own right, violently alive. And the thought and emotion were completely and totally their own, if not now.

"_You've made them…us…beautiful."_

"Perhaps."

_The girl he draws in light pencil, she's as light as air, as delicate and warm as a bird. The soft greys are muted; he's taken special pains to make a pale clear finish. She smiles from the page with the same smile she greets him with; she flutters in the softness of her growing excitement like an angel. Her skin is gently shaded, her hair silky and wild, her hazel eyes are delighted and welcoming. Her form is attractive, her feet small, her hands ready and slender, and she looks at him, gentle strokes of soft pencil and gestures like a Madonna, her expression clear._

He passes over the drawings of himself, there's much written in the quick strokes of ink but more in the next drawings.

_The boy is not as gently or carefully drawn as his sister. He is done in harsher, bold strokes of deep charcoal, the page crumbling a little under the heavy lines, his expression defiant, looking past the watcher. His hair is rich and rough like raw silk, his body done in harder, flatter planes, more alive and warmer for all of it. His golden eyes stare hotly from the paper, they are not confused, he isn't happy, but he doesn't look out sadly. Too fiery to be resigned, too loving to be angry he exists simply on the broad black lines of the artist's soft charcoal sweeps. The parchment suits the technique well, the pages are worn but he looks like a medieval sketch from an illuminated church, the glowing candlelight making him alive and colored inside the page, but unlike the other who appears to be drawn in the tints contained inside the shades of pale grey. His coloring is the parchment and charcoal stick itself. His skin is not as soft as hers, his hands almost rough but richly golden, amber torchlight hidden within his hair, and the artist doesn't need the finish or taste of his pencil drawings to make it true._

"Can I have a drawing?"

"Yes."

……….._rustle_

" Your welcome."

"Thank you."

The other man leaves the artist. He thinks he knows why now, even if he only knows one answer. He wanted to know all the answers, and isn't sure of that anymore. It surprises him.

The artist smiles serenely, the lantern light making him look divine for a minute. He turns to gather his supplies, and starts to leave, but stops. He can't breathe, he can't move, but he doesn't speak yet because he doesn't know. _He doesn't know why. _

The stranger, a pale slender ivory scarred man with a burning garnet gaze, the eyes of a demon, once a fanatic but now coolly appraising. He moves efficiently, gracefully, but he's tense. Tired. Bracing for attack.

"_Hello."_

"_Yadoneshi."_

The artist's gaze is wary, yet resigned. He gestures gently, laconically, with one pale hand, stained with ink and remnants of charcoal dust. The touch indicates the sweep of the park, the reaching wiry branches of the dark trees, and the growing grass, softened by the wavering lights.

_The fanatic watches the angelic artist. He expects something, but he doesn't know the outcome. He's broken in this boy's presence, yet whole, and he knows. He knows why. And he's afraid._ The artist turns to walk down the asphalt sidewalk, alone in the dark. The other falls in stride with him. He's surprised. He doesn't betray his surprise, he doesn't have to, most of his actions are an open book to the other, and he waits for whatever will happen next.

_This isn't safe. Not really._

"_It hasn't been safe for the good six months I've been walking here…Thank you."_

_What have you been doing here?_

"_Admiring the view. The leaves are pretty, and it's fairly interesting."_

_You're carrying your drawing supplies._

"_Yes."_

_Like I said, the view is interesting._

_There was this one person…."_

_Who?_

"_A boy my age. He has a drawing."_

_Bought or took?_

"_Neither. I gave him one. I think he really likes it, but it was already his. He'll take good care of the drawing, but it already served its purpose."_

_What was it of?_

"_Just a charcoal sketch."_

_Ryou……….._

"_Yes?"_

_I'm only going to say this once. Only once._

………………

_I love you._

…………………

"_Oh."_

_Shut up. You're not normally this unarticulate. It doesn't suit you._

………………

"_Where were you?"_

_Traveling. I was searching. I'm done now._

Silence. Footsteps.

"_I love you too."_

_I hate you._

_snarl_

_smile_

"_Of course…Bakura._

**Owari**

**The extra pairing was random, but I really love it. Please tell me if I had problems with imagery, pace, etc, or if you just want to talk or something, e-mail me, links in my profile. If you really don't have anything to say, just comment so I know you've read it, or just say hi. This fic is dedicated to kuroi-sakurapetals, who started me reading fandom, so check out her fics. If you know someone who would beta read for me, please tell me.**

**Ja Ne!**


	2. Drawing Pespective

**Yugioh does not belong to me, or any rights to it. This is strictly non-profit. Yaoi.**

Dreaming Perspective 

You asked for a protector; you begged and wished so sadly I had no choice but to stay and grant you're wish. You wanted to be protected from anything that would stain your pure heart, even if you didn't know it. You told me so pleadingly of your pain it hurt my heart to see you cry. You wanted a savior so badly from the evil surrounding you; you never guessed I might be both.

"He asked me, and I came, he told me what he wanted, and I gave him double. He accepted it, and I was grateful. But he shouldn't have thanked me so soon, he shouldn't have welcomed me so gladly."

There's a man sitting cross-legged near a grey window. He sits, he looks, and he muses. And he's content. But he won't always be.

The man looks through the window out into their small town, it's small, perhaps, too the people passing unconcerned through, but to him, it's a puzzling mystery. He's proud, almost aloof, but dazzled by electric lights, not by the hard glare of sunlight, an odd person who is disgusted and confused by the smell of new leather and white shiny plastic and the tang of rusty metal, but prefers instead to stand aside and inspect crystal bottles containing amber liquids and rich light scented puffs of almost invisible droplets, because they remind him of kohl smeared eyes and thin linen and smooth marble. He doesn't understand these people, who are content to live their lives surrounded by marvelous _speaking_ metal beasts, even if they truly aren't alive. He doesn't understand the children, who are artless and yet scheming and petty, and he thinks, _like my advisors,_ but then he remembers they aren't there anymore, and despite how low and cruel they were they simply aren't there anymore. And nothing in the world will ever change that. There is no force that can bring back the dead, except perhaps the shadows, and only at the cost of the loser. Its not really as if he would bring them back, they weren't important, he muses, but its just a thought. He doesn't have many of that kind of thoughts anymore.

"_Yes?"_

_Would you miss me if I were gone? Would you weep for me?_ Would you be happy, eventually when you realized you don't need me? Please answer, I don't want…

"_Is something wrong?"_

_Perhaps._

" _Do you want to talk about it?"_

_No. I'm sorry._

"_For what?"_

Everything. _Not telling you._

"_It's okay, really. You can talk to me about everything, right?"_

_Yes._ How could I, when my dreams are sullied with blood and angst and flashes of memory, and I wake up, and imagine I can still see the screams and anguished writhes of my former victims in my mind, and I can still see the little friends you care so much about among them, and _you?_

"_Yes."_

'_You asked me, an odd question one ordinary innocent day, and I answered. You know me so much better than anyone else, you who was so great, and is so bright sometimes I want to shield my eyes and keep you simply locked away, and not share your brilliant light with others, you who can break a man with a few words, asked me a question that I did not know the answer to. It was so terribly confusing, I could almost hate, you, except I could not, would not ever do that, simply did not posses the strength to deny, even if I wanted to see if for just one moment I could dim the radiance of your light. It was a simple question, a simple answer. One that I knew before, hadn't I puzzled over it for so long? I am nothing but a simple boy, who does not understand what the shining creature beside him says, often, but you still smile at me. Only at me. Why? Could you not merely walk away?_

_I answered your simple question with a feeble effort, but I smiled at you in return. Wasn't that enough? But you didn't answer, so perhaps I was mistaken. Please, my radiant companion, don't turn away. Even if I have to run as fast as my short legs will carry me, I will stay by you. Even if I don't understand what your questions entail I will answer them. You asked me, Will you miss me? and I should have said, I love you._

The boy sits on his seat, idly thinking. He looks out to a world he doesn't really understand. The loud clash of perfumes, scents, noises, and the bright blue and pink of the school uniform overflows the cafeteria. It's his free block, but it's far more pleasant to dream, he thinks, gathering his books. He's an odd boy, who prefers to stand aside and play at his childish games, because they're special, precious to him, even if they can only be a shield against what he fears for so long. The playing, he thinks, is juvenile of him, but its special, he explains in his gentle way, because the bright colors and wild monsters can detract from the present; he's content to live in a dream, to sleep forever in a never-ending sleep, to fall deeply and not surface. But he can't, because that's his wish, not his peaceful serenity. He wonders why he wants that, but it somehow doesn't seem important anymore. He looks like a child, an elaborate porcelain doll, every delicate fingertip and fine hair perfect, exquisitely preserved. He feels tired and almost jaded, sick of being kept like a showpiece. He looses himself in his games, and when he awakes he is once more drawn on to encourage, to cheer, to aid, and belatedly, he realizes it will never end. Perhaps he wants it to. Perhaps he wants a special someone to look at him, to smile because they answered his question. He treasures the thought, knowing it is the only method of his desire. He wants…

" ….I'm afraid. I'm afraid of what will happen. Our friends are hurt, and…I can't STAND IT ANYMORE!"

_I'm worried too. I don't want these bad things to happen anymore either._

"_Do you think we'll be able to win? To save our friends?" _I'm scared. So scared…I don't want to lose everything. I don't want to lose my everything.

_Yes. If we have faith, everything will turn out fine._

"_I guess so." _Will you make it fine because it's you? Are you truly a golden statue, or can youbreak as well?

_Have faith. _Please.

"_That's right. We just need to have faith…" _I hope_…_

_How odd. How truly odd that I, the powerful and famous legend, should feel guilty over such a small thing. I'm sure his mother said the same to him many times, to reassure, to hope that his blind faith in her would be enough motivation, a heartfelt prayer from the both of them. After all, that's what all mothers do, don't they? Lie. Tell their children that everything is fine, that their special person/animal is happy, and safe, and loved… tell them that everything will turn out fine when it won't, it may never. Do they feel this, a lingering regret, a soft sadness that pricks the heart? Or are they merely perturbed that they may no longer hold fast to the mantra, I never lied to you? I hope it was the latter. I hope so with all my being. Please, believe me when I say that I am truly sorry; and will hold back the feeble excuses that I know, unconditionally and unadulterated are unreturned. I hope that you are disappointed in me, and I cannot look in your eyes when guilt wracks me. Believe me when I turn away coldly or, even worse, more unforgivable, stay silently by your side. Remotely. I have ruined, warped, innocence, and for that I deserve to bleed, torn by the very gods I sought to favor. My soul is soiled, my sandals trampling on the righteous man, the widow, the orphan, and the very thresholds of the gods themselves. Punish me, I am impure! I am impure!_

_Please, dearheart, let me be the only disappointment in your life. Let me hold the post of the worse and meanest villain, let me be the one that wounded your heart. You are so fragile, so oddly delicate, unbearably strong. I don't understand you anymore than I understand myself._

_I'm so confused, but that simply isn't enough, just to make me alive. Am I alive? Some would differ. You would assure me, happily, laughingly, unbearably beautiful that I am, you would tell me that so seriously and sweetly I would have no choice but to agree. If I were not anything but living, would I not feel this guilt?_

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

It's a beautiful day; it's a wonderful morning. The café has never been more busy, the people more exuberantly happy and naive. The two boys/men/_children, _are almost somber though, ignoring the bustle around them. It's cute, really, to see them avoid each other's glances, to attempt to normally acknowledge the mechanical greetings. The apparent younger of the two studies the scarlet geraniums potted nearby as if they held innumerable secrets in their velvety depths. The other crosses his legs arrogantly in a familiar long practiced gesture, too shy to meet his companion's eyes. He toys idly with a glass, studying the amber flecks of golden light that bounce off its polished surface. He would seem to be unhappy, but how could he be? The boy sitting next to him looks down shyly, almost angrily. He wants to say something but he doesn't, merely content with studying the other's profile. For now.

The other man knows there are choked words in the boy's throat, he feels the weight and heat of the other's gaze burning, but he ignores it. That's what he tells himself. But that's not why he doesn't talk, so it isn't really true.

His delicate companion speaks up first. He starts to hear words, and quickly jerks his head to examine the fine features, but the boy is busy looking into the pale clouds, gazing at the porcelain blue sky, as if to purposefully avoid the other's gaze. He speaks idly, turning sideways in the wrought iron chair, plucking the red dyed petals of a blossom with slender hands. He's determined now. Not many people observing him note the strength in his voice, or the iron in his posture, like a tightly coiled steel spring, and misjudge him, going on in their meaningless lives. The other watches him carefully, giving him his full attention, the epitome of politeness and respect. He sees that, and hates it.

"_I need."_ Fragile, lightly curled petals drift in harsh shreds to the pavement, tramped by passerbyers.

_What do you need? _Quiet. Almost wistful, he doesn't lift his bowed head.

The sky turns eggshell grey, focusing its nest of turbulent clouds on them, a shadow of iron lacework barely visible from under a striped canvas awning.

"_Food. Oxygen. A home. My friends. Sleep, I suppose. To be needed."_

_You are._ Still studying the cobblestones underfoot, he doesn't look up; uncharacteristically quiet. He doesn't see the glaze of disappointment shadow the other's eyes, nor hear the harsh breaths so synonymous with his own. Neither of them is focused on the sky now, intent on finishing this conversation.

He steels himself to answer, to keep talking, feeling the urge to babble already pressing in on him. The first raindrop splatters sown, he studies the dark silhouette that sinks deep into the ground. A ladybug catches his attention, scuttling frantically for shelter underneath the curved underside of a green edge.

One heartbeat. Two. _I'm afraid, he says angrily, directing the comment at himself. I don't want to lose. _

_A pause. More raindrops scatter down, shook free from the awning. They have a gentle rhythm now, as the storm escalates. _

"_You know, that may be the vainest thing you've ever said."_

_Perhaps, he agrees, a smile quirking the corners of his mouth. Nobody's perfect._

_His companion smiles radiantly at him, tugging insistently at his hand as they dive for more secure cover, both of them faintly soaked from windblown raindrops. He feels a curious sense of loss, standing and dripping foolishly on the welcome mat, but he's not alone. Water drips from the edges of their hair, he shakes his head, suddenly doglike, shrugging droplets into every corner of the faintly lit room. He looks at the other, a trifle ashamed of himself, regretfully nostalgic and gently shy. The boy still holding his hand presses a warm open mouthed fleeting kiss on his wet mouth, standing on tiptoes. He still doesn't let the small hand go, and he's fairly sure he isn't unhappy and guilty anymore. Rainy days are very good for being sad, but they can be equally good for warm, idle dreaming._

_Owari_

**Please respond, a simple hi will do. I do want people to actually read this.**

**Orahiko**


	3. Demon's Perspective

I don't own anything so don't sue. This is Yaoi, and flames help me write faster. This is Marik's pov. I really love Malik; I think he's an interesting character.

**Demon's Perspective **

_I never went away, I don't think that I am capable of leaving you. You haunt my mind, and even though I have nothing but dreams I continue to watch you. Why are you so indifferent to me? Surely you must notice, even if I wait ten thousand years._

He's beautiful in the moonlight, gilded and dark. He hasn't conformed yet to the common way of sleeping, no matter how much he may love their odd rumbling and metallic machinery, so his headrest is simple palm wood, polished smooth and lined with loving care. The light filters softly through thin, roughly woven cotton, and the soft whorls of sand eroded stone. He could be a statue, but for quiet breathing, pale lashes distinct against smooth skin, and he's lovely in the moonlight.

He's almost trapped in a cage of silver light, and he's nobody's but whoever might choose to possess him. I reach out my hands, but it's futile, he can't hear me approach, but my touch skitters over his coverlets. He's weighed almost imperceptibly with amulets; bits and pieces of stone and twisted metal that enclose him in a delicate net of thread like protections, they jangle delicately, a mocking testimony to his distrust.

He's insane, and I think I love that about him.

He likes to laugh, it's a charming sound, strong and unafraid, the swirls of glittering golden and brown dust whirling in soft stinging clouds around his tanned feet and torso, his clothing swishing as he completes his revolution, and settling into place with a distinct movement, reminiscent of a ballerina bowing to her audience; wide eyes alive and certain and almost infinite, as if you could see everything about him inside that glass bright gaze. But nobody looks, they're afraid, I think.

He frightens me sometimes, just a little, he's far too beautiful and passionate and wild to be alive. There's a deceiving fragility about his bones, light and slender, but capable of bending iron if by merely will alone. His cheeks flush, full mouth smiling, desert rose shading high cheekbones, eyes almost too bright, too innocent. He reminds me of a kitten when angry, furiously attacking its opponent, too young to understand death and suffering, so its merciless attacks are and would be almost tragic, simply because its nobody's fault. Kittens have odd, unquestionable beliefs that are true, in their worlds at least, so doesn't it make sense, dearest, that what you believe would be your world?

He's not an innocent, not really. The innocent are naive, and that's a flaw, not something to be admired. His sister works at a museum, if you can call it working, organizing the exhibits. He likes to play there, wandering around with fascinated stares at the blobs and thick streaks of paint that make up beautiful paintings, clambering over the interactive sculptures that are so cool to the touch, delighted and wickedly amused, or simply napping in the tall white sunlight filled halls with odd wires lining the ceilings. The exhibit there last week was some kind of new age art, all chunky shapes and long angles. There was one that particularly fascinated him, an entire sheet of simple black shapes, like magnets haphazardly attached to a refrigerator door. The composition was ordinary, but the broad expanse of black almost didn't refract light. The critics called it, 'deep, captivating and extraordinarily dark', which confused him very much. It confused me too. Why couldn't they simply call it a sheet of pure black? Why were only other colors called **pure**? If something is simply unsoiled by another substance or color, it is **pure**. Why can't black be pure too? After all, it's untouched and yet multi-faceted, people just don't notice. And I thought about how sad it was, it was a color just as much as the others, but the black couldn't even be called pure.

I'm not always that happy with his life.

There are too many people that look at him, far too many that watch him with envious or startled eyes, and stare wide eyed when he departs. They shouldn't look at him, they're afraid and unseeing of how truly lovely he is. Some see, and they're afraid, terribly shocked.

Sometimes people think he's an angel, a holy creature, flawless and debauched and angrily vivid, wisps of white gold hair framing his face, his eyes hidden by sandy lashes and filled with changeable, shadowed colors, shifting like a mirage of brilliant shards of rainbow. He stuns them with his actions, dazzles them like a magician. He's often upset, childishly petulant and furiously golden, shockingly and luminously so. He doesn't hear them though, probably because he thinks they're foolish and dreary, like the endless sand pitted stone walls that children play with, and just as fascinatingly complex. Other fools think he's a demon, breath catching and deadly, so efficient in his fluid movements that he purposefully twists their minds, capturing their souls like a handful of fragile butterflies. He's really neither, you know, because he doesn't choose to be.

_Stop, help! Please! Please, Father! _

_I don't want to! I don't want to stay in the darkness all my life! _

_The little boy dreams. He's surrounded by wraiths, forgotten memories and lonely souls. He dreams of a ordinary family, that goes to bazaars and bargains for food laughingly, and of a machine that strong, and rumbles interestingly underneath him, and smells of oil and strong grease, wonderful smells, and he explores it, fascinated, peering at it and hugging it, and polishing it, half kneeling so his bare feet stick out in the dirt, until his sister comes out with cookies and leans against the doorway in her apron, and mock sternly orders him to wash up, and his big brother comes home, and plays board games with him and watches television with him, and when its time for bed swings him around and around, high up in the air, a dizzying feeling of exhilaration and helplessness and trust and the warm glow of laughter and love surrounding him, and he smiles. And then he wakes up, and feels the ache across his shoulders, and a drying stickiness he knows is blood, his blood, and he closes his eyes, but really, it doesn't do any good. Because there's a difference between dreams and reality, and that's what he truly hates. But it doesn't matter. It never will._

I'm almost glad of his nightmares, when he twists and murmurs almost inaudibly, except he would never, could never, ever, ever lose complete and utter control of himself, the thought, for him, is too frightening to contemplate. For him, perhaps. I like it when that happens, until he awakes and paces insistently, unrelentingly until he's exhausted and simply lies in his bed, and stares at his pretty thin little wrists and delicate rice paper thin skin and the purple blue veins that are slightly visible, like the legs of dead spiders, and simply _watches, _because he sees clots of sticky crimson black liquid on them, and that's what he dreams of, opalescent bubbles of milky liquids and dragonfly wings, covered with the thin films of golden brown netting as thin as an onion's husk, and the faintly metallic tang of blood and pink meat lined and threaded with warm white fat, of murky yellow water reflecting stormy blue with thin leather tough cattails and a heron calling, and twisted trees dripping pearly jewel embedded fruits, and childishly drawn yellow stars, and he thinks that Freud was an idiot, a complete moron. And I agree with him, because it's stupid and the only thing I can do.

I'm fairly sure what I wanted once, as sure as I can be about anything, I suppose. I wanted many wonderful things I had never experienced, intricate and simple. I expected him to be almost everything he was, to respond eagerly and unsurely to everything I had to offer, to luxuriously immerse himself in the rich, rankly foul _dirt_ that was so shocking, a forbidden, almost unwanted pleasure, so unsure and wrong it trembled through that frail body and provided a thrilling high. So easy to deny found pleasure in that wrongness, so clearly loathable the belief of easy acceptance and unregretful denial was a mere grasp away.

And I thought he did. I honestly believed that it happened that way. _I was blinded. I was a fool._

_He accepted it. He took it with a contemptuous grace that was clearly belied with the hatred in his gentle smile. It was twisted and sadistic, and perfectly ordinary. In retrospect, it was…almost vicious. There was laziness in his movements that led me to think he might have a shred more potential then I had previously thought. A puzzling development, something I hadn't expected at all. So I watched him. And I followed him. It was simple; I had no pressing business. And then there simply was no alternative._

He succeeded my hopes. He showed signs of truly becoming something special, a key piece in the game I was playing. He was deadly, readily divorcing his closest family ties that were not beneficial to him without a flinch, so callously shedding his former shell I was truly pleased. And I continued to watch him.

_He was alone, mostly. That was…good. He would be less distracted that way, more focused. More powerful. Perhaps…_

He likes supermarkets. He likes the way they sound, loud hollow human voices broadcasting over the heads of the shoppers, the noise flowing in liquid lines over the white ceiling, avoiding the florescent lighting dimly white yellow light flickering with pale purple and green, light as smoke, with shrill static interruptions as regular and concisely fuzzy as the thin black barcodes. He likes the people, self-centered and uncaring, who passed on by, chatting, bickering insistently, not paying attention to anyone else except to comment or hurriedly apologize insincerely, clutching their crinkled shopping bags possessively, or holding them lazily away from themselves with drooping wrists. He likes to look at the food, wrapped neatly in twists of wax paper or in shiny clear plastic, the stiff, brightly colored cardboard boxes with unrealistically delicious looking pictures crossing the fronts, the chill of the frozen foods section, thick white frosts clouding the parcels of food. He likes the sugary, slightly crumbly pop tarts, and he loves to warm a penny on the shiny steel heaters, and pretend to be an ordinary, aimless shopper. He really loves it.

_All the people, they deserve to die. Their families deserve to cry and scream and curse, simply because they'll finally experience what I went through. And they won't forget me, even in their ravings._

It was sudden, when the girl managing the deli dropped to the ground, still and bleeding, absent dust and bits of broken vegetable clinging to her navy striped apron, her blood impossibly red and even inconspicuous against the cracked floor. It was so startlingly unbelievable that the people around seemed almost tempted, belatedly stunned to act as though nothing was wrong. But this man, ordinary and normal and huge, magnified by fear and a vague sense of unreality, a heightened sense of sudden awareness on him, made him seem impossibly threatening. So they stood frozen like stupid little _cattle, _and he, of course, did the only sensible and predictable action for a madman, or a terrorist, and grabbed a hostage.

_What does it mean when you feel like your heart is going to burst, like there is only one focal point in your world, nothing else that matters, nothing more important or desperate or possessive? What does it mean when you want to run away and yet the only thing that you can think of is what happens next? I don't understand. _

The mortal took _him_, dragged him upright with his heavy pitiful arms and held the unreflecting black barrel to his head, stifling and choking him effectively. And I watched, because this was of little importance, as dangerous as a midday walk. There were policemen, somehow, and gently murmuring men and women whose faces were blurred and everything was white blue grey, and sticky and humid and sickening, but he was small and unobtrusively beautiful even with his shoulders hunched and small chin jutting upwards. And the man was saying something I couldn't quite hear, a human bellow speaking of despair and _unfairness, _but it didn't matter, didn't matter at all.

_Welcome to my home, little fly. I'm sorry, truly sorry, but it doesn't matter if I live or die. What would I do if you hurt one of these people? As long as I can, I will try to make you understand._

And then he turned, slightly in the man's rough hold, and started talking. The first few words were clear and crisp, wide eyes looking up at him in a parody of innocence, unseeing, like a seer's, a blank clearness. His words had changed, his voice gentler, low, solely directed at the murderer who held him in an angry cage, then lilting, sardonic, yet implacable. I saw him. I watched the man who threatened him tell him to be silent, unable to stand up to the truths, the reasons, humanizing the enemies that haunted him, putting them on equal footings, something so impossible to grasp it was as far away as he was.

And he broke, the murderer broke, and shattered, and gave up hope and sorrow and pain for guilt that was rightfully his. And that was the power he possessed, the potential. I supposed that was why he shone so brightly, was so inexplicably a paradox.

_He took that man with him, who promised him servitude and frank obedience while threatening to betray him, because he understood. And he laughed, because the whole thing was extremely amusing, but he had to go on and play and was missing the wonderful brightly golden sunshine and flower honey scents, but now somebody would help be with him, which was good, and he might be able to forgive or condemn that man. But it didn't really matter anyway. _

_And they outran the police cars, and hid in the swings of a playground. The terrorist had never seen anyone like this stranger, who was currently picking up shiny rocks and flower petals off the pebbled ground, and completely ignoring the man who had just threatened him, then had an emotional breakdown._

_So he asked the stranger," Do you want me to thank you for that stunt?" and the boy looked up, lavender eyes wide and gold flecked, like a cat's, pink and white petals catching in his hair, his dusky hands full of flowers and bits of rock crystal and mica, his shoulders and back flattening like a child caught in the proverbial cookie jar. Then he smiled, obscurely puzzled by the man's attitude, and asked what seemed to be the right question, "For what?"_

I think I realized then how inescapably I was lost.

I'm fairly sure he knows that I watch him, surely he must notice that shadows are more frequent even in the mildest dark, the night deeper nearest him and almost velvet solid. How could he miss the eyes that watch his every move from the crimson reaches of Hell? Please, someday acknowledge me in your own fashion. I'll wait, but nothing is guaranteed.

Owari

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**Silently Broken; it's great to meet a het fan, thank you for your review. I'm sorry for the misunderstanding, though, all my pairings were yaoi. I'm very fond of het, so please don't stop reading my fics and reviewing, because I really appreciate it. I know it was an easy mistake to make, I realized that when I re-read it, but it was meant to be vague, because of the point of view. The key to seeing the pairing is when I described the sketches. Shizuka's was done in pencil; Jou's were done in charcoal. When Ryou and Bakura are talking, they discuss the fact Seto had picked out a charcoal sketch, his own were done in ink. Basically, Seto was oblivious to the crush both of the siblings had on him, but figured out he liked Jou. It wasn't an official pairing, just a hint of what might happen should they choose to pursue that course of action. It was confusing, and the sort of mistake that will probably happen again, so I'll have to be more careful, so thank you for showing me that.**

**Selanika: Hey! Thank you so much for the review; these are my first fics, so it's great to have that kind of encouragement. I'm very grateful to you for reviewing.**

**Please comment, or simply say Hi so I'll know you're reading this. **

**Orahiko**


	4. Dancing Perspective

**Thanks to Silently Broken. Don't own, don't sue. Pov of a drugstore boy.**

**Dancing Perspective**

_The strange boy lives in a house by himself, rough curtains catching on the broken glass of his windows, peeling paint falling in loose spirals to the ground, choking the fine grasses that would spring up there, a soft carpet despite whatever attempt he may make to choke it. It's disturbingly easy to imagine him, to press your ear to the twisted jagged lines of coarse wood, pretend to hear soft footsteps against the equally rough hallways, a methodical light footed tread, baby clumsy and hesitating, ghost white clouds of powder, soft and pale as flour, caking his feet. The women in our neighborhood wonder about him as they pick out their medicines and pass their magazines, glossy and stiff over the bright plastic of the drugstore counter, what a shame for the neighborhood and such a poor dear, perhaps the policemen will help, but after all, its not like he's violent, just insane, they titter at each other from behind folded hands covering vicious lipstick slashed mouths hiding yellow stained dentures, pursed slightly with disapproval._

I saw him once, y'know. Just a few times. He was…completely different than I expected. He goes here to buy groceries, milk and stuff, pills too, same as anybody else, cept they mostly go to big supermarkets with lots of fancy stuff we don't stock, but he didn't really seem like a supermarket guy. Good for business.

I'm straight, at least I think I am, it's hard to tell these days if _anyone_ really is anymore. I like girls, been on a few dates, at least when I'm out of the drugstore and in school and stuff, same as any kid. I like movie stars, especially Angelina Jolie. But _he_ came in, and it was really weird, like he had something special about him, like, I couldn't look away. That English word, the vocab one we're studying in class, _charisma, _that's it. Not movie star brightness, the kind of veiled smiles actresses wear onscreen, or the soulful looks of the handsome men. I don't know. Sounds silly, doesn't it?

He wasn't well, or even decently dressed, I think the bums that hang around Chinatown and hold out paper and plastic coffee cups are much better dressed, probably. I was setting up the back shelves first time I saw him come in. Its really dusty and dirty behind there, so I was being all careful not to bump my head or get dust on my apron or sleeves, and I guess that was all I was thinking about. I heard the bell jingle, but I didn't need to rush out there immediately I thought, cause some people need to pick out they're stuff and don't want to feel pressured and watched and all that.

_He was barefoot_. _That was the first thing_ _I noticed about him, the dirt smearing the bottom of his feet. It wasn't hard to tell who he was, the resident odd guy/madman. He looked mad. Actually, he looked, I dunno, saner, than anybody I had ever seen before, but he wasn't looking at me. He really wasn't. He was looking for something, but he stared at the shelves in front of him, filled with odds and ends, as if he hoped to see happiness hidden somewhere. But he didn't expect to find what he was looking for, whatever he was looking for. But I didn't see that. Nobody did, or they saw him clearly and despised him. _

He was leaning slightly back, staring at the top shelves, the coffee stained ceiling and murky flickering bare light. His shoulder bones were hunched, delicately wide and painfully thin and sharp against the grey cotton of his t-shirt. His mouth was compressed into a thin line, vague and unrevealing, eyes cloudy behind smoky lenses in gold wire frames. His glasses were slightly cracked in the corner, a fine filigree of tiny jewel like chips centering downward, like a teardrop stain he hadn't bothered to brush away. He turned to peer at me behind his slipping shades, one eye the color of old jade, the kind my grandfather used to collect and display on a shelf in our house over his chess board when it rained. I'd never seen anyone like him, not in our town.

He didn't say much, just asked a price, picked out what he needed, and went on his way. He didn't buy much, simply a few groceries, sleeping pills. It's odd, I remember everything he bought; yet no real description of him, it's all a haze somewhere in my mind, and I think if I just _try_, I might…I can't.

He had an ok voice, a little unnatural, but only if you looked for it. Kinda vague, blurry, somehow, like stormcloud edges, a faint hint of an accent, English, maybe. He sounded like he might be a shy guy, if he wasn't so impenetrable, with that faint hint of cynicism, not at _you,_ but just, generally. Like an outsider's, someone who likes people, but finds them amusing because he's used to it. I thought it was unnatural, and it really was, yet somehow not out of the ordinary, not at all. It sounded slightly disused, hoarse, like he had worn it out screaming, or weeping, or as if he were choked with wineglass bottle shards, still faintly tasting of wine.

What a weird guy.

_There's an odd man who lives down the street, at the end of the block, the little kid's park, yeah, you know the one with the swing set and the plastic slide? They say he's an artist, makes these weird sculptures, huge blocks of polished stone and the most beautiful carvings you've ever seen, but for someone who lives right near a playground, he doesn't seem to be very used to kids. He made that little boy that was so irritating a little sculpture, though. Just a twist of wire, but I've never seen anything so beautiful in my life. He looks so dangerous, though. Like an ex-convict, and the neighborhood almost petitioned for him to be evicted, but time passed and he didn't do anything dangerous, so really, I guess he's ok. _

_Such a strange man, though. He always buys steaks, and prefers to wear red and white, and now that I think about it, I guess it's a little bit disturbing, huh? But he dresses well, in loose drawstring pants and wide long sleeves, even if he does go barefoot a lot. Hmm. Maybe it's something in our neighborhood's water. He's a pretty good-looking guy, even with that scar below his eye. I've never seen eyes like his though; maybe it's contacts. You know those black eyes of his? I'd swear they were crimson in sunlight, odd as it may seem. My mom had a ring with a stone in it… Garnet, yeah, that's the name. Dark, clear and shadowy, unexpectedly deep, reminiscent of odd things, like watered blood and crushed stone, it's twisted, like there might be something inside of it, but you look just to laugh, because you know there really isn't anything in it. People mistrust him, but nobody really bothers to hate him other than murmuring resentfully behind his back, but it doesn't matter, because they believe they're in the right of it anyway. They're nice people, and to them truth doesn't matter. It doesn't, but their opinions would. _

I've seen him a few times; almost everybody around comes in here for something now and then. He's not someone I could call normal, in any way. Not at all. I'm a normal kid, I watch movies and play video games and have a computer, and I've been freaked out more than once by movies, or horror books, but I've never been this scared in my life as when I first met him.

He was nice, I suppose, almost charming, but I wouldn't want him to be. I didn't know why I was afraid. He nodded good day, he shrugged resignedly on cue, but I was a small bug, a pebble underneath a concentrated burning glassy focus… I was unnerved, and defenseless and predictable, and he didn't care. I was scared of him. I wasn't afraid of him killing me. I was afraid of living with the knowledge of things I couldn't fathom, complicated and old and resigned and bitter, like acidic green leaves choking my throat with wet filminess, yet dry and choking, and _understandable, _within reach and so simply in my grasp…I didn't want to meet his eyes, even if I was unimportant.

_How laughable. I wanted to go on with my mundane life, live forever, simply watching…perhaps._

He glanced at me, his voice vague and indistinct, something I couldn't quite hear that ran from me like the sand of an hourglass, unsuspicious and clear. I'd never seen anyone like that, so I tried to stop myself from staring and unfortunately failed, not that he paid attention to it anyway. Normality is crackling thin white plastic, with fingertips blossoming like bruises inside of it, patterns of red laser light, repetitious dusty cream-colored plastic aisles, dim lights and straining eyes. It wasn't what I was feeling; yet what was packaged in the thin shell of normality was what I was afraid of.

He looked ageless, but not invulnerable, like he was used to the mortal side of blood and the ripping and fraying of veins, muscle fibers and wet flesh. He looked inhuman, like an ivory statue with bones of wood, but he bought beer and milk and sugary junk food.

_I was unsure of whether or not to be concerned for my soul, his teeth, or the cash register. _

I've seen his house, sat outside in the playground a couple of times. It's really a beautiful place now, with trees like a watercolor painting dashed with water, idly surrounded by piled sun warm brick houses, awkwardly piled like a child's building blocks, the metal point of the stairs of the nearby train station barely visible and scrawled with rainbow graffiti, dully gleaming grey blue metal rising like smoke in the distance, the thick wild mixed grass and weeds, underfoot to be readily torn up, the color of the madman's eyes. It's a nice house, painted an unobtrusive dark sage green, something he hadn't picked out for himself, but was too lazy to change. Besides, it's sometimes a good thing to blend in, I guess. It's oddly shaped and unbeautiful, and reminiscent of a twisted step, one of the foldable ones that were stored under tall Victorian beds, and there are steps there, smooth mottled cement with fine cracks in the edges, but not enough to make it crumble, and an awkward stain glassed window on his door, not a beautiful thin one, but one with lumpy smooth curves of plainly colored glass, red and blue and green. His door is nice.

I've seen the mad boy's house, its at the intersection where the cars meet, the one with the little oasis amid the sea of cracked tar, the asphalt roughly painted yellow and filled with dying plants and the occasional struggling pansy, choking in the faintly darkening grey smoke. It's a beautiful house, really, even with the loose, battered paint of a thin, indefinable color, the grey brown wood of the house splitting into fibers. There aren't many plants that live around there, one yellowing vine that clings desperately to the side of the house, and thick bunches of wire strong weeds with tasseled and thickly seeded heads, are the almost the only plants that survive. The windows are dull and cracked; the glass brittle and filled with fine yellowy dust, and you can see him pass through now and then, relentlessly absent, lost in himself.

I wonder if they know each other. Maybe it's a stupid assumption, but honestly, who knows? They're both strange people. The artist/neighborhood alert guy, voted most likely to kill someone by the little kids, who, incidentally, play outside his house, has white hair, almost like the hair old people have, colorless and bleached down past the roots, while the other has iridescent hair, lavender ivory, almost moon colored. Maybe it's the anger in their faces when one hears of a theft, or the other sees a toy. No, that's not it, not really. It's the dejection I see in their eyes, the sadness. I wonder why they look so disheartened, like they miss something, like somebody just ran over their childhood pet, or a close family member died.

_It's really none of my business, but I can't help observing._

Summer is heavy and humid, thickly blanketing all the people in its grasp with sleep, making them languid, bored, itchy and warm. Dusk gold and brightly glowing, the sun beats down on those foolish enough to choose to take advantage of the relative emptiness of the streets. The plants flourish, healthy and thick, glossy leaves shining brilliantly despite the lack of water in the matted dry dirt. Small winged insects buzz persistently around damp skin, delicately and unobtrusively tormenting them with future pains, and installing people with a more annoying sense of paranoia. In short, it sucks for the working class.

_I wonder who'll come in today. What kinda person would be brave enough to defy the heat?_

That day the window broke. It was hot and cloyingly sticky, and despite the numerous air conditioners, hovering like a child's crudely drawn fantasy, exhaling a chill that provided some relief from the torment of the sun.

I was irritated and bored, full of energy but not enthusiastic enough to actually do anything about it. Almost nobody came in except for a few kids, intent on their small ice cream purchases. There was a bug, I think, hovering around me, and I tried to kill it. I hate bug bites, even if I'm not totally squeamish about bugs.

I certainly didn't expect to hear the chime of the brass sleighbells, loosely tied by red satin ribbons in twisted knots that were oddly inappropriate for this time of year, that had often replaced the flat metallic buzz that preceded the footsteps of a customer. I attempted to present some show of respectability and attentiveness, but fumbling discarded the idea. I remember it was hot and too tiresome to move, and my legs felt vaguely like they were filled with heavy liquid glue, the edge of my vision blurred by soft edged grayish blurs, and moving would surely twist a muscle in my back, if even the awkward thin curve of bone poking my stomach wouldn't leave a bruise on my skin. I didn't expect to see him, the oddly disturbed boy, barely a few years older than me, walk in on the pebbled cheap sandstone colored carpet, seemingly unbothered by the heat, despite the crimson shade of his pale skin, kept that pallor by years of self-inflicted hiding. He didn't wear shoes, still, and I think I winced inwardly to imagine the torture on even the most calloused of heels against the unrelenting cement that made up our streets. His feet should have felt like they were bleeding by then.

He wandered in a way that made me certain he could find what he needed, and I was tired, too tired to watch him and be prepared to help him immediately after he was finished. I didn't see him but I think I could hear him moving above the absent roar of blood in my eardrums, hesitant yet deliberately choppy steps gently against the rough fibers of the fraying carpeting. A lulling sound, a small point of interest in a sea of utter blank boredom.

I think I dozed off, I don't think I would have missed such an unusual meeting if I weren't completely dazed. I didn't see, him, only felt the light rush of air flow invisibly into the shop, warm and smelling of sweetness, or the cruel ray of light that sliced across my eyes and against the glowing thin paper I had wrapped around the clear pointed shards of the shattered window. I felt oddly unaware and yet blissfully blank, and realized I was listening for something I couldn't hear. A breath. I couldn't hear him _breathing_. It felt, like for a while his heart had ceased to function, the air knocked out of him by one powerful thrust, like his lungs ached for air, but he was breathless for elation. And I could _hear _it.

_Maybe it was a figment of my imagination. Maybe it was a hallucination brought upon myself by the heat. Maybe it was a daydream. I didn't even want to consider the possibility._

Truthfully, I'd never seen such an expression like the artist wore, and I don't think I ever will. Never. It made my knees weak, and my blood pound, battering desperately to my head. It was calm, though anything but complacent. Warring. He was dressed in a loose bloodred shirt that draped artistically across his shoulders; flatly tying in the front and light, almost gray pants and sandals. I focused on his clothes, trying to distract myself from his face; it was almost too overwhelming, too private. Then he shrugged and picked up a newspaper, rolling it up neatly and idly, and adding a package of cigarettes to the paper. I think the package of cigarettes was red and white, I studied it intently as if I t were my only lifeline, which it seemed to be, but somehow the words blurred and I couldn't see it, anything, but the harsh unrelenting posture of the two men. They weren't looking at each other, weren't even facing each other, but I've never seen two people more intent on each other, focusing on a single person till everyone else, anything else in the world disappeared into a same colored haze. The boy looked angry, his shadow's profile tense, the muscles in his throat straining against the skin like he wanted to memorize the other's pattern of breathing, the rhythm of languid gestures. The other looked deceptively calm, almost furious, eyes roving frantically yet unwilling to settle on the one he was looking for.

_I don't know how he could stand to walk out of that door. I don't know why I didn't stop him, even if I had no idea why they were behaving that way, even if I knew for a fact they were total strangers, had always known and accepted that as a natural part of life. My life. _

He left, and the tension in the room thickened from thin threads to taunt cords, multiplying, then disappearing like wisps of dark smoke. I was oddly, inexplicably, unrealistically happy, and it choked my throat, like the end of a burst of laughter, uncontrollable and welcome. I think, I think it was perfect. Everything was unexpectedly perfect.

_The way I guess it should be. Even if I had no idea why._

They're both mad. I think. It doesn't really matter, but people have started asking me why I sell things to such potentially dangerous people. And I can't honestly answer them, so I just shrug it off, or listen to their irritating lectures about how I'm courting danger, and how _madmen_ should not familiarize themselves with routine places, because they're unpredictable and how I'm not the only one at risk…

It's true that maybe I should be more unsettled about what they buy, but I don't think so. I've been scared my fill and then some, and I don't know who thinks I'm not scared anymore that really knows me. I shudder when I have to handle the raw meat and try to avoid wincing when I package the excessively sugary junk food and enough beer to kill most men, or at least supply the neighborhood. I'm still unnerved by the amount of delicate powdery pills and syrups in thin plastic bottles I handle, and the sound of so many of them, like light pebbles against cheap breakable walls is something I prefer not to think about.

Maybe so. But there are enough people dying everyday that whenever I turn the crackling radio on, restlessly flicking through the stations, so many I don't choose to listen indifferently to the news anymore, to process the information, as emotionless as watching a plant grow, like it no longer matters. I don't care anymore, because no matter how dangerous they are, and they are, because no one who has ever seen a feline kill can pet a cat comfortably again, no matter how I feel, as stupid as it may be, and odd this may be, I've simply stopped worrying about it. They're solitary people. They're fragile. They would easily kill me if it mattered. They may kill each other. But…

He still takes pills, so many I can barely count them all, but he doesn't take sleeping pills anymore. He still eats raw meat and sugar and drinks beer, but yesterday he looked at a woman, a mother, and actually saw her as someone.

_I honestly don't know if they are going to be happy, I honestly don't know if they are going to hate each other, or pretend the other doesn't exist. I don't know who will take the next deliberate step, and if it will take a day or ten years. I do know that I've stopped equating my problems with world disasters, because I don't honestly know what a world is anymore, or what a disaster might appear to be or present. I guess I've stopped thinking about as many things because I honestly don't know. The first step has been set, however inadvertent their actions might have been, eventually they will follow through._

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

**Imagine if Ryou and Bakura never met. Imagine if Yugi and the others saved the world, and set the spirits free, never meeting Bakura. How would it feel to never meet that special person, the one who actually provided changes in your life, the most important, and perhaps the most hated. I don't honestly believe Ryou would have remained sane despite the emotional scarring he receives in the original storyline. I don't think Bakura would have been able to cope with a normal life without a feeling of loss, either, regret for something that could have happened. One way or another they would have met, and whether or not what they felt was different, it would have happened. It would have needed to happen, in order for both of them to survive, even in a twisted way. What they do without the other, how they lived, would not change, but with each other they would have a chance to develop, to look around themselves instead of searching for the one they needed. **

**Both are complex people, with unclear emotions, so I think it would not be apt to give them a clear happy ending, but for them, this may be as happy as they will ever be. Like I said, this is a changeable story. I think that no matter how they avoid each other, it still won't change anything. It's like a dance, and the steps are simply waiting to acted out. **

**I regret to day this is the last of the drabbles. I may be persuaded to change my mind, but it's not likely I'll pursue this much further. Thanks to my reviewers, I needed them.**

**Silently Broken; thank you! For your information, het stands for heterosexual, or a male female pairing versus male male, or yaoi. **

_Pay for the groceries, talk to the watcher, and watch the bishounen dance. _


End file.
